


Legacy

by classicteacake



Category: Cookie Clicker
Genre: Am I really writing cookie clicker fanfiction? Absolutely, Cookies, Divine Cookie Beings, Grandmatriarchs, Possibly too many cookies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7212964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classicteacake/pseuds/classicteacake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You feel like making cookies. But nobody wants to eat your cookies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> I got inspired while listening to dramatic music and playing Cookie Clicker. I'm not sure how it happened. In any case, enjoy!

The heat of the summer sun warms the world outside, its beams penetrating through the cloudy glass windows of your home, bringing its persuasion for a productive day with it. As much as you appreciate the glow of the sunlight reflecting off of wooden furniture in your room, you can’t help but have a little disdain for its implications. Summer has been slow for you - much slower than usual. In the past, the end of school has always marked the beginning of a season of freedom and casual enjoyment; this year, it marks the beginning of a sequence of trials and errors and far too much paperwork for your liking.

Before we continue, let’s remind you of your name. You are Sam Bendrix- What’s that? You don’t remember what you’ve been doing this summer? Perhaps a full reminder of your current state is in order, given your fallacious memory.

Your name is Sam Bendrix, and you have just graduated college. After many exams, papers, and tests of your patience, you have left the school with your well-earned degree and have been searching for a job since then. However, despite applying to dozens of companies and attending a multitude of interviews, you have not been able to get hired by a single merciful employer. As such, you are still living at home with your parents and your younger brother. Your family does not mind housing you, but there’s a definite tenseness in the air whenever the topic of your job hunt is brought up -it’s more than clear that they’ll be happy to see you able to afford your own apartment.

Still, you’re doing your best. You can’t help but envy your brother a bit -he’s still a sophomore in college, and is yet to experience the struggle of the world of employment. Oh, such sweet innocence. He will know soon enough.

In the meantime, you’ve been trying to occupy your time with small, but meaningful, tasks. Cooking is on this list of activities. It is also the one you’ve been putting off the longest. Quite frankly, you have never done any substantial cooking before; you’d be hard pressed to even make a box of macaroni when no one is around to help you. You, Sam Bendrix, are terrified of cooking. You wish that food capsules that turn into a full meal when hydrated existed. But they do not, and sooner or later, you will have to come face to face with a room filled with tiled counter tops and dangling metal utensils that reflect the fires that enhance your endeavors to create a culinary work that will sustain your own well being. For now, you decide to start somewhere small - baking.

The idea comes to you when passing by the television one night; Paula Deen stands behind a Food Network logo, working her buttery magic on a lump of cookie dough. You watch just long enough to see her toss the tray of cookies into the pristine oven before she continues on to start another recipe, and it is enough for you to decide to start your cooking experiments off with a small batch of cookies.

You tell your family about your plan to utilize the kitchen by yourself for the first time in your life, and each relative wishes you luck. You ask them if they’d like to try your work once it’s done, but the shaky “maybe”s and “errr…”s is more than enough of an answer. Still, you don’t let your family’s skepticism of your culinary abilities dishearten you. You prepare to make cookies, regardless.

After consulting several online guides on basic tools, techniques, and procedures, several hours pass by before you remove your first batch of cookies from the oven. Your brother passes by the kitchen to scope out the state of the treats you’ve made, but just ends up turning on the kitchen fan and power walking back upstairs. You can’t blame him - these little lumps of dough look sad, like apricots that were left out in the sun for too long. Plus, the smell is less than desireable. Disappointed that your endeavors turned out to be fruitless, you toss the cookies into the trash can outside. For the rest of the evening, you watch the trash can from your window to see if the neighborhood raccoon will come to pillage these fresh spoils. It’s a few hours before it finally comes by, and the animal barely touches it before hopping over the fence and disappearing from sight.

* * *

You open your eyes only to have them squint in protest, recoiling from an onslaught of light. Focusing, you can make out two figures in front of you, shapes blurred around their edges by an incredible, all-encompassing brightness. You are not given time to let your eyes adjust before the figures begin speaking - at least, you think they are speaking. You can’t really tell since you can’t see them properly. Even if you were to close your eyes and simply try to listen to them, their voices seem strangely muffled, as though the light itself is dense enough to choke out sound.

Even so, you are able to get the gist of these peculiar figures’ words. One of them begins by telling you of a bright future: a future of success, of wealth, of prosperity. They speak of an advanced civilization in a land that’s rich and sweet. You aren’t terribly sure what they’re on about, but you can’t help but think back to your Religious Studies class your freshman year of college, what with the talk of a land of milk and honey. The second being starts speaking once the first has finished, and talks to you directly. They tell you that you have a role to fulfill, and that they know how to make you successful. You will know riches that no one else could ever dream of. You will bring about this advancement of civilization. You will change the world.

You can’t help but be more than a little skeptical of this all. The grandeur of this entire situation just seems fishy. You have no desire to become more successful than anyone has ever been. The thought of changing society like that hasn’t even crossed your mind. Still, something about these figures’ promises seem… inviting. You can’t quite place your hand on it - perhaps it’s this intense, sourceless light bathing you all in a golden glow, perhaps it’s the heavenly din of these voices filling your ears, or perhaps it’s just because the thought of actually getting a job sounds appetizing. Yeah, it’s probably the third reason there.

Without saying a word, the second figure begins to describe to you something you never thought you’d hear from an angelic, all-knowing being: a cookie recipe. They lay out each step slowly and deliberately for you, listing off each ingredient in detail, and you can’t help but wonder what would happen if you forgot a step. You decide to listen closely.

Once the figure is done telling you their tips for baking, both beings fade into the surrounding light, bodies dissolving into a sea of bright gold air. You don’t have time to wonder what comes next before a sharp buzz wakes you up, bringing you back to your room. With a curt grunt, you roll over and grab your cell phone from your nightstand - your grandmother has left you a voicemail.

“Hi, Sammy! It’s your nana! It’s been so long - you should really come visit more often! Call me back, okay?”

It’s five in the morning. Nana, couldn’t you have called at a better time?

Your mind is still buzzing with the odd dream you just had. You swear your eyes haven’t adjusted to how dark your room is. Setting your phone back down, you decide to get an hour or two more of sleep. You’ll call nana back once you wake up.

Maybe.


	2. Step One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruin the cookies once, shame on the recipe. Ruin them twice...

The staring contest you've been having with the bag of chocolate chips in your hands has been going for a good few minutes now, and you've found the chocolaty cartoon character on the front of the package to be a formidable opponent. However, your focus is not on the flatly colored caricature's piercing eyes, but rather on your own disdain towards going through this again. It hasn't even been twenty four hours since you were last in the kitchen filling the house with that awful odor, but here you are, Sam Bendrix, contemplating your own feelings for the daunting art of cooking, holding a bag of slowly melting baking ingredients. The kitchen seems all too big - each climb up to the cabinets above is like rock climbing up a steep slope, each smooth tile under your foot makes you feel like you're on an ice rink, and each drawer opens to reveal treasures thought lost by ancient civilizations millennia prior to your discovery.

Even with that dream of those Divine Cookie Angels still fresh in your head, it took every ounce of self motivation to bring yourself this far. You much rather would have called it quits after last night - it'd be much easier to just admit baking isn't your thing and move on to adding your resume to the backlog of applications for Walmart cashiers.

You've decided to give baking one last try before throwing in the towel, and while you're already internally regretting your decision, you're determined to see this new recipe carried out to completion.

Having summoned most of the ingredients to their respective positions on the polished countertops, you begin the process of assembling everything into sticky, gooey dough. You make small notes of the variations from the recipe you tried last time - use both baking soda and baking powder instead of just one, don't melt the butter this time, sprinkle in just a touch of salt; did they say to preheat the oven-?

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch your brother sitting at the kitchen's island, chin propped up on his hand and elbow subsequently resting on the counter top, watching you idly. He seems surprised to see you back here so soon, and you can't blame him; you're surprised, too. You could really do without his silent judging, though. Knowing that he'll be the first person to see if something goes wrong makes you a bit nervous, especially since you know he'll tease you about it later. You do your best not to let him get to you and continue beating the wet ingredients together in a little yellow bowl.

You take about as long as you did last night to get the lumps of dough in the oven, even with the occasional pause to wrack your brain for details you received in your dream. By the time the oven is heating up, your brother has moved out of the kitchen, much to your relief. However, you consider for a brief moment that he might be the wiser of the two of you; evacuating the kitchen in order to avoid smells similar to last night was a pretty smart move. Recoiling at the possibility of getting the same outcome as last night, you barely manage to stand your ground to watch the oven.

In the middle of your wallowing in fear for the inevitable disappointment that's going to be this turnout, something peculiar happens. The oven begins emitting a scent, chocolaty and warm. You draw near, eyes wide. You eagerly turn on the oven light to peer inside, and what you see fills you with a sense of pride you only last experienced when you found you aced your calculus final back in your sophomore year of college. The timer rings on top of the oven, and you pull out the hot tray, almost forgetting to arm yourself with thick oven mitts before handling the metal. Delicately, carefully, you place the tray on the empty stove to cool. Moments later, you ease your work off of the metal with a spatula, piling it all onto one plate.

With a chest swelled full of well-deserved pride, you place the plate of fresh cookies on the table.

You break your elated stupor to remind yourself, much to your dismay, that you can't count this as a complete victory until you actually taste one. Not only that, but it has to taste _good_.

You lift one of the warm treats off of the plate, handling it as though you're about to appraise a fragile glass figurine, and hesitantly bring it to your lips. You take a tentative bite, letting yourself assess the texture, the taste, the feeling of the warm cookie gracing your whole mouth. Your eyes slowly shut as your reservations melt away, and you let yourself savor your miraculous creation.

Your work paid off. You've succeeded. You have crafted a perfect batch of cookies.

Finishing off the morsel with a few more swift bites, you open your eyes to- oh? Your brother is standing just at the entrance of the room, peering at you from around the corner. He looks like he's ready to take cover, as though he's expecting something to detonate.

Still high from recognizing your success, you raise the plate of cookies up and give your brother an uncharacteristically confident smirk. This does nothing but make him suspicious, if not intrigued. Your brother cautiously rounds the corner and approaches as you hold the plate out for him. He raises an eyebrow before accepting a cookie, giving it an interested sniff before taking a bite. You watch with baited breath as he chews, letting himself assess the taste just as you had done a moment ago. You don't have to wait long before you see him give the cookie a surprised and, to your elation, _impressed_ look. This is enough to make you grin in absolute joy.

Your prompt excitement leads you out of the kitchen with the plate of cookies, and you have to remind yourself not to run through the house while you seek out your parents. You find them in the living room, and upon entering they each give you an inquisitive glance.

Just as you'd done with your brother, you hold out the plate to them.

Your family accepts to try some of your cookies.


End file.
